


Just a Nibble

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But John loves it, Drunken Confessions, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, John finds Sherlock tasty, Love Confessions, M/M, Military Kink, PDA, Pet Names, Sherlock is awkward, but with words, mild stuff tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: This work was inspired by a Twitter thread started by 221b_careful_what_you_wish-for, added to by cwb, and requested by Snoggy.John has a list of pet names for Sherlock, none of which he has actually, y'know, USED OUT LOUD. But one night when he's been drinking, one of them slips out.





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221b_careful_what_you_wish_for](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/gifts), [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/gifts), [Irrevocably_Sherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/gifts).



> These were 221b's brilliant suggestions:
> 
> Poppet  
> String bean  
> Sock monkey  
> Love stallion  
> Cheeky McCheek Bones  
> Plushy bum  
> Kinky pie  
> Sugar boy  
> Angel lips  
> Snack
> 
> Plushy bum is my favorite. CWB suggested "posh snack" which, come on, is so suitable.

John had been drinking.

 

John had been drinking _a lot_. As a consequence John wasn't really thinking, well not anything particularly clever or coherent. Mostly he was staring is soft delight at Sherlock's lamp-lit curls and thinking what an absolutely delicious treat for the eyes he was. Really, the man was a-a-a snack!

 

"Another?" Sherlock asked, only slurring slightly. He'd been keeping up with John all evening. They'd started out the night at Angelo's splitting a bottle of red over dinner--it was their "anniversary" and ten years since they'd met--and the two friends had let the evening spin away from them as they reminisced. One bottle turned into two, and by the time they'd strolled back home, John had been feeling a wonderful sense of relaxation, happiness and had been unwilling to let that go. He'd suggested cracking open the bottle of Merlot a grateful client had gifted them, and Sherlock had surprisingly agreed. 

 

The fire popped softly on the grate as Sherlock leaned across the small space between their chairs, which they'd dragged closer together. He topped up John's glass and then poured the remainder of the bottle into his own. It was almost too full, and with a grave, "whoops" Sherlock slurped at his glass until the level was manageable. Licking his berry-red lips, he settled back, smiling at John, "This is nice."

 

"It is," John agreed, trying not to stare at Sherlock's stained lips and his happy eyes. "'s been a bit busy lately...'s good to just...chill."

 

"Chill," Sherlock purred, in a silly undertone, and they snickered.

 

Stretching out his legs, John held his glass up to the light, admiring the ruby depths, "This is pretty good. Need some chocolate."

 

"We have some!" Sherlock jumped up, wavered, then corrected his wobbly gait by planting his fingertips on John's head as he walked past him to the kitchen.

 

"We do?" John was aware of each point of burning contact from Sherlock's fingertips, as if his scalp had been branded.

 

"I knew you'd be in the mood for snacks," Sherlock called, as he rooted in the cabinets. "You mentioned a Bond marathon on our way home from the Yard last night, so this morning I went by Tesco's."

 

"You went to the shops?" John blinked damp eyes, absurdly touched. Christ, he was a bit pissed, wasn't he? Getting teary over Sherlock doing a bit of shopping.

 

"What do you fancy, John? Salty or sweet? We've got Belgian chocolates...cheese and onion crisps...those flaky things you like..." Sherlock stopped talking and John glanced back to see him bent over, arse in the air, rummaging through one of the lower cupboards. "I bought some very runny cheeses and rosemary crackers..."

 

"Plushy bum," John murmured fondly, eyes on Sherlock's award winning arse.

 

"What's that?" Sherlock straightened and turned to look at him almost owlishly, " _What_ did you say, John?"

 

John panicked. Oh damn his mouth! Damn the wine! He'd spent the last nine months (nine years, really) holding his tongue and now he'd just blurted out one of his secret pet names for Sherlock. "Sugar boy!" He spoke without thinking and damn, there went another!

 

"What?" Sherlock wandered to the edge of the lino, snack packages dangling from his hands. His eyes were round and wondering and John almost choked on his desire.

 

Oh sod it. "C'mere, you posh snack." John was on his feet without consciously moving, already crossing the lounge, intent on getting to Sherlock. Depending on how his words were received he'd either be needed to revive Sherlock when he fainted, or to claim a kiss.

 

" _John_..." Sherlock's tone was almost awed, and his face was soft, young. John ached with a fierce surge of love for him, his best friend, the best man he'd ever known. "W-what did you say?" His extraordinary eyes were shining with hope and longing and John knew it would be alright. It was finally going to be alright.

 

"I said," John spoke clearly, crisply, nervousness gone, heart beating with hope and exhilaration and happiness. Stopping just in front of the other man, he brought his hands up to cradle Sherlock's face in his hands, " _Poppet_ , that you're the only snack I need."

 

Sherlock's ridiculously plush lips shaped a p silently, but he seemed unable to speak. No words were needed, however, for his eyes were blazing with love, unrestrained at last. John exhaled shakily, "Christ, Sherlock, I'm absolutely bonkers over you...like, stupendously in love with you and those angel lips of yours."

 

"...i-in love?" Sherlock lit up like a Roman candle and then gasped when John brought his face in for a kiss. It started out soft and sweet, gentle passes of their lips, but then someone's lips parted, and a tongue swiped over lip and tongue and teeth and then they were gasping desperately into one another's mouths, hands clutching feverishly at arms and backs and bums. Stumbling, they managed to make it to the sofa, falling over onto it's broad, dependable cushions. Sherlock clung tightly to John, keeping him from falling onto the floor, and for good measure wrapped a long leg around his thighs. "Oh, John..."

 

"Like that, sweetheart?" John purred, slotting one thigh between Sherlock's legs and trailing kisses down the long column of his arched throat. His lips smiled against Sherlock's warm skin as his only answer was a longing gasp followed by a deep moan. "Guess you do..."

 

                                                                                                                       <3<3<3

 

Sherlock Holmes, John discovered, slept like a log once he'd been properly exhausted. He also clung like a limpet; the man was a champion snuggler. John really, really needed to pee and no other power on earth would have made him disturb the peaceful expression, happy embrace and restful slumber of the man currently wound around him like an octopus. No other power other than his bursting bladder. Moving as gently as possible, he managed to extricate himself with some difficulty, and crept into the loo. He didn't bother to turn on the light, in case it woke Sherlock, but he couldn't avoid flushing the toilet. As he was washing his hands he heard a slightly panicked sounding Sherlock calling his name. 

 

Not bothering to dry his hands, John hurried out of the loo, "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

 

Catching sight of him, Sherlock, who had been sitting up in the welter of damp, crumpled sheets, sagged, "Oh. You're there."

 

"Yeah," John said slowly, tilting his head, "Had to pee. What's wrong?"

 

"I woke up and you weren't here..." Sherlock glanced away, "I thought perhaps..."

 

"What?" John asked, coming around to his side of the bed, "Were you--are you--having regrets?" His heart thundered. It had been the single greatest night of his life and the possibility that he might have to listen to Sherlock give him a list of reasons why they had made a mistake sent his heart plummeting to the ground.

 

"Are _you_ having regrets?" Sherlock turned the question on him, expression inscrutable. He would have looked more unaffected if his hair hadn't been a frizzy halo of curls from John's hands running through his hair the night before, and if he weren't nervously squeezing his big knees in his hands.

 

"Why would I have regrets?" John asked gently, "I'm the one that started--"

 

"Perhaps it was just a drunken--"

 

"Don't you dare say mistake," John said hotly, standing over him with a glare, "I can't bear to hear you tell me--"

 

"John I _never_ \--" Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, sounding shaky, "For me, for me it would never be a-a mistake. I just thought you might be--"

 

"Brilliantly happy?" John asked, relaxing his defensive posture. They were both nervous, he realized, reaching out a hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek, both of them desperately afraid that the other would draw back, try and return to the way things had been. "Over the moon? Trying not to grin smugly that I finally got the courage to tell you how I feel?"

 

"You meant it then?" Sherlock said softly, placing his hand over John's, "You don't regret it?"

 

"The only thing I regret is not telling you sooner." John knelt on the edge of the mattress, putting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders for balance, but the slippery bastard sank back onto his back, smiling triumphantly as John straddled him. "Wanker," he said fondly, "You don't have to manipulate me into snuggling--or sex--just ask."

 

"Can it really be that simple?" Sherlock bit his lip, eyes shadowed.

 

John pressed their chests together, relishing the beat of Sherlock's heart, the hunger with which he wrapped his arms around him. Regret for all the ways he'd hurt Sherlock, pushed him away, denied their connection threatened to overshadow John's happiness and he pushed it away, promising himself that he'd never again leave Sherlock in doubt of how he felt. "Now that we're no longer standing in our own way...yeah, yeah I think it is that simple." John smiled, kissed him, "My little sock monkey."

 

"John," Sherlock protested, but weakly. If anything, John thought he seemed secretly delighted with the silly pet names. 

 

"Yup, that's me." John rubbed the tips of their noses together. "I'm John and you're Cheeky McCheek Bones." He punctuated each word with alternating kisses to the cheekbones in question, fighting laughter at Sherlock's hazy expression.

 

Sherlock gurgled with shocked laughter, "I'm _who?_ "

 

"You heard me," John smirked, and slid his fingers into Sherlock's hair, tilting his head so he could begin nibbling his way from Sherlock's earlobe down his neck to the ticklish spot at the juncture of his neck that John had discovered during the night. "Although after last night, I _really_ ought to be calling you Love Stallion."

 

" _Love stallion?!_ " Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as John delicately caught his nipple in his lips and hummed. "Oh gods, John, yes...do that again..." A beat of silence and then, smugness in his voice, he purred in his deepest, silkiest most velvety tones, "My snack sized darling." Long frame shaking with laughter at John's squawk of outrage, he rolled them over so he was on top, and beamed at John with bright eyes, and murmured persuasively, "Give us a nibble..."

 


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a /little/ trouble with pet names. Namely, he picks the wrong time and place. Eventually he'll get it right...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not responsible for any of these pet names either XD

          “John,” Sherlock called absently, eyes on the slide under his microscope viewfinder, “Coffee.” He paused, reflected, “Please.” _Snuggle bear_ continued Sherlock in his head, as he did these days. It was one of his many pet names for John. Just not, you know, one he actually said out loud. Ever.

          It wasn’t that he didn’t mean them, or _want_ to say them. Merely that he had a-a bit of a natural hesitation to be so florid. Also, he’d spent years determinedly _not_ saying any of the frankly embarrassing things he thought in the privacy of his own mind regarding John Watson. Also, also, he wasn’t a very demonstrative person and he’d have felt a bit silly calling John _short stack_ and _honey bun_ where anyone could hear him. That anyone included John.

          Although there had been that time in bed—well, on the hearth rug, amidst the remains of their romantic fire-lit “picnic”—when Sherlock had rather breathlessly called his boyfriend _Commander_ and been joyfully pounded into a jelly-legged state of bliss. Hmm, perhaps he should branch out and try using the names which cropped into his head more often.

          Not in the lab, perhaps. But soon. He’d take John to dinner—John was always in an agreeable mood when kept fed regularly—and slip in something subtle. Test the waters, so to speak.

 

******

 

          “Alright,” John joked, pretending to sternness, “What horrible thing have you done that I’m meant to forgive you for?”

          Sherlock’s smooth stride faltered, “Pardon?” He looked at John askance. He hadn’t done anything, thank you very much. Well, not lately. Not today, at any rate.

          John grinned up at him, “You’ve been awfully courteous tonight _and_ we’re going to dinner without prodding _and_ you said anywhere I want. What gives?”

          Sherlock held out a long arm and pulled open the door to John’s favourite Thai place, the pricy one he normally avoided for financial reasons. Sherlock had insisted they go wherever John wanted, however, and here they were. “Must I have ulterior motives?” He inquired, looking hurt.

          “With you?” John asked, stepping through the door, “Always.”

          “After you,” Sherlock murmured, bending in to breath in John’s ear, “Hot pants.”

          John’s expression was startled, and he gaped back over his shoulder at Sherlock, nearly running into the petite hostess, who scrambled to get out of the way. “Oh!” John said flustered, “Sorry—God, sorry.” He put out conciliatory hands, didn’t actually touch her, “Erm, sorry.”

          Assuring him that it wasn’t a problem, she eased behind her hostess stand, favouring one foot. Sherlock felt mildly guilty that he’d so overcome John’s natural self-possession that he’d stepped on the girl’s toes. Perhaps he needed to wait until John wasn’t a moving object to deploy one of the pet names.

          Accordingly, once they were seated and had accepted menus (although they always ordered the same things) Sherlock folded his hands on the table and gazed at John, “Thank you for your help today, it was invaluable…cupcake.”

          “Eh?” John exclaimed, looking up from his pro forma perusal of the menu. The waiter, who had just arrived at their table with wineglasses of still water, paused, face going blank. Sherlock saw the sparkle of laughter in his eyes however, and his face flamed. Oh _bollocks_.

          “Would you gentlemen care for anything to drink?” The man asked, the height of professional detachment. He was their server more often than not, and yet he acted as if he had no idea John would order a Saigon Special and Sherlock would ask for a soda chanh.

          Once the man had left, John, a bit red in the face, leaned across the table, “ _What_ has gotten into you?”

          Sherlock wilted; obviously John wasn’t a fan of pet names.  Despite employing them quite often himself. “Nothing,” he muttered, clutching at his water and staring into the clear depths. Why then did John call him _string bean_ when he sat on the side of the bath while Sherlock lazed in one of his hot baths? Or giggle and moan _kinky pie_ when Sherlock did that thing with the flavoured body oil and his long violinist’s fingers?

          John lavished those names upon him with love and affection and….oh. Discretion. Sherlock blinked at his glass and then smiled suddenly. When they were alone, o _f course_. John was a fairly phlegmatic Englishman when in public. But when they were _alone_ …

          “It makes me a bit nervous when you smile like that,” John said, not sounding particularly troubled. He smiled at Sherlock, “Feeling alright? You haven’t slept much this week…want an early night?” His eyes were fond; clearly he’d dismissed Sherlock’s shabby attempts at pet name deployment as a side effect of sleep deprivation. Well, Sherlock vowed, he could do better than that.

          “I’d like to turn in early,” Sherlock purred, letting his voice go deep and velvety in the way he’d observed that John found arousing. Sure enough John’s pupils expanded, darkening his gaze, and he’d licked briefly at his lips, as if moistening them in a sudden blast of desire. Sherlock lounged in his chair, smiling slowly at John; aware that no one was within earshot, he risked one last volley, “But not to sleep...big boy.”

 

******

 

          “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” John said roughly, head thumping back against the wallpaper in the entryway to their flat, “But I bloody love it.” He let his head fall back, giving Sherlock better access to nibble his way down his neck to this collarbone. “I bloody love it. Christ, _Sherlock_.”

          Sherlock, having become impatient with the tiny buttons of John’s shirt, had simply jerked at the fabric and popped every button off. Triumphantly, he grazed John’s bared collarbone with his teeth, relishing the resultant shiver. “Problem, Captain?”

          “Oh, it’s to be one of those nights, is it?” John rasped, hungry hands sliding inside the open collar of Sherlock’s Belstaff and pushing it impatiently off his shoulders. Sherlock obliged by removing his hands from John’s arse, but immediately replaced them. “Go on then, private,” he growled in Sherlock’s ear, “Tell me what you want…and give me my full title.”

          Sherlock breathed deeply of the smell of John, in all its comforting and maddeningly sexy complexity, right where it was strongest, at the crook of his neck, “I’d like to take care of your needs—Captain Boner.” He slid one hand hotly down inside the waistband of John’s trousers, cupped him roughly, “On my knees, as it were.”

          There was a moment’s pause, and Sherlock nearly wilted, worried it was too silly; he’d gone too far, John would either laugh or laugh it off. Following a shaky breath, John pulled back and looked at him with lust glazed eyes, “Well then, soldier, on your knees.”

          So grateful was he to sink to his knees voluntarily rather than end up there in a humiliated puddle, Sherlock dropped with alacrity. Unfastening John’s flies, he looked up with wide eyes and couldn’t help but whisper, “Thank you, John.” He should have known John wouldn’t laugh at him.

          John’s eyes were warm, and a soft hand carded with extreme gentleness though Sherlock’s curls, tipping his head back. His other hand cradled Sherlock’s jaw, and a thumb brushed with lazy affection over his lower lip. Sherlock sucked in an eager breath, and allowed the tip of John’s thumb to slip inside his mouth, wrapping his lips gently around it. “What was that you called me?” John asked softly, eyes twinkling with good-humour and affection.

          “Sorry,” Sherlock murmured, running his hands up John’s thighs and pulling at the loosened waist of his trousers, unclothing him to his hungry eyes. Peeking up at John’s face, he allowed a tiny, seductive smirk to linger on his lips, “It won’t happen again…dongmeister.”

          Smiling confidently, he relished the sound of his lover’s delighted laughter. Oh this _was_ going to be fun! He had lots more names for John and many more years in which to lavish them on him...


End file.
